


Beating Like a Hammer

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy can't do this alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beating Like a Hammer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seanchaidh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanchaidh/gifts).



_“Wait here. Hide. Don’t move from this spot, Bones, don’t you dare move unless there’s no other choice. I’ll get you out of here. Comm me if you’re in trouble, check in every half hour. I’ll be right on the other end. Just…stay alive.”_  
  
“Stay alive,” echoes McCoy wearily. “I’ll try.”  
  
“Bones,” says Jim. “That’s an order. Stay alive. I’m right here for you.”  
  


***

  
  
Stay alive.  
  
Sounds easy enough, don’t it? McCoy’s trying, he  _is_ , but it’s never as easy as all that, is it? If McCoy thinks hard about it—and all he’s got right now is time to  _think hard about it_ —then Jim is asking too goddamn much of him, really, and fuck if McCoy can do this alone. The communicator hasn’t yet left his hand and while McCoy is rationally aware that he shouldn’t be bothering Jim so soon after just speaking with him he’s also in pain and scared, and he can’t, he can’t do this, he needs—  
  
He just needs Jim.  
  
So he presses the  _transmit_  button.  
  
“Jim,” he whispers. “Jim, come in.”  
  
A burst of static meets his ears and McCoy flinches. For a moment, all he can hear is the deafening crush of white noise, swallowing his hammering heart and mind, before Jim’s voice cuts smooth and steady through the storm. “Bones. You okay? Tell me where you are. Repeat it for me.”  
  
“Deck seven,” slurs McCoy. “Corridor…uh, corridor C. Jeffries tube 7NX. Right under the commissary.”   
  
“That’s good,” murmurs Jim. “That’s good, Bones.” He sounds harried and out of breath and McCoy is worried about him. Mostly he just needs to hear Jim’s voice; he needs to know Jim is okay, that Jim is still with him.  
  
“You find Scotty?” asks McCoy.   
  
The deck-plating is a real bitch on the hips, but then again, he supposes it wasn’t designed with comfort in mind and for bodies to lie on for any considerable length of time without one of those mats the engineers use when they’re conducting more long-term repairs. Stretching out his legs and slowly turning over eases a bite of the soreness, but it also sends a stab of pain through his abdomen, so McCoy abruptly stops moving again.   
  
“Not yet,” says Jim. His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m on way now, though, and I’m one deck away. He’s made it to the transporter room so he’s going to see what he can do from there. You just be ready when we comm you, okay? Keep that communicator safe. You need it for us to beam you out.”  
  
“Together,” says McCoy. “We’ll all go together.”  
  
“Yeah, Bones,” says Jim soothingly. “Together. I’m getting you out of here, okay? Don’t forget that.”  
  
“Jim,” rasps McCoy.  
  
“What is it, Bones?”  
  
McCoy sighs. “Just needed to hear your voice.”  
  
There’s a long silence and when Jim speaks again his voice is thick. “Hold on, Bones.”  
  
“Aye, captain.”  
  
He told Jim he’d try.  
  


oOo

  
  
Distant clanking startles McCoy out of an inadvisable light doze. His chronometer tells him only ten minutes have passed since he talked to Jim, so it’s not time to check in yet, though it’s a palpable ache, his desire to have Jim’s voice envelop him like a blanket again.   
  
His eyelids flutter and he’s on the precipice of unconsciousness when the clanking repeats, further up the tube, closer to McCoy.   
  
“Deck seven,” whispers McCoy. “Corridor C. Jeffries tube 7NX. Deck seven, corridor C—”  
  
Voices. He can hear voices.   
  
 _Shit_.  
  
Jim would’ve told him if he was coming. This can’t be Jim. Jim is going to beam him out. This must be—  
  
Shuddering, McCoy drags himself to his hands and knees and begins to crawl. He grits his teeth against the burn in his knees and the damp ache below his stomach, the sweat gathering at the small of his back and under his arms, and he crawls.   
  
 _Stay alive, Bones._    
  
He’s made it down about fifty metres of tunnel through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness when his communicator pings.  
  
Breathing raggedly, McCoy slumps against the wall of the confined space and accepts the incoming transmission. “Jim,” he replies breathlessly. “Sorry.”  
  
“Thirty minutes,” chides Jim, voice raw with concern. “You’re supposed to check in every thirty minutes. What’s going on?”  
  
 _Don’t pass out. Don’t you dare pass out on me, Bones, you hear? Keep your eyes open. You have to stay awake. You have to stay alive._  
  
“I had to move,” wheezes McCoy. “I could hear voices, getting closer.”  
  
“Where are you now?”  
  
McCoy hasn’t got a blessed fucking clue. He looks around dizzily for the identifying panel, and—there, he’s—  
  
“Deck…deck 8. Don’t remember how I got up that ladder, though. Corridor E, tube 8TS.”  
  
“You sound terrible,” says Jim.   
  
“Then call a goddamn phone sex line if you want a more pleasing voice,” snaps McCoy.  
  
Jim barks a tight laugh. “Take it slow. I’m with Scotty, now. We’ve almost got the transporters back online. Don’t get lost.”  
  
“I’m in a series of clearly-labelled hamster tunnels,” mutters McCoy. He draws his knees up because he’s cold all over, groaning softly at the sharp bites of pain. “If I get lost, it’s my own damn fault.”  
  
“How’s the—”  
  
“Fine,” grunts McCoy. “Just fine.”  
  
“I’ve gotta go,” says Jim apologetically. “Thirty minutes.”  
  
“Thirty minutes,” repeats McCoy obediently. “Be careful.”  
  
He hopes he’s got that long.  
  


oOo

  
  
The thing about gut wounds is they bleed out slowly.   
  
McCoy can’t go any further. The only thing he’s capable of right now is lying motionless, curled on his side in a tacky puddle of blood, and he’s pretty sure he’s going into shock. He has crawled through what feels like approximately half the length of the ship, and the first thing he’s doing if he gets out of this alive is sending in a request for carpeted Jeffries tubes. The second thing is apologizing to the appropriate parties for bleeding all over two decks.   
  
He thinks he’s back where he started. Wouldn’t that be a fucking trip?  
  
The communicator is still clutched tight in his cold fingers and he brings it up to his mouth.  
  
“Jim, I’m pretty sure I threw up in some vital system on deck nine. Tell Scotty sorry.” It’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He doesn’t want to move anymore.   
  
“Where are you?” asks Jim.  
  
“Hell,” mutters McCoy. “I am in hell.”  
  
“Bones,” urges Jim. “Talk to me.”  
  
“No,” sighs McCoy. “No, it hurts, Jim. You talk to me. Please.”  
  
There’s a swirl of static and a burst of chatter—Jim giving orders to Scotty—and then Jim’s voice is back, surrounding him.   
  
This is okay. This is good. McCoy is almost at peace with dying like this, as long as he’s got Jim talking him through it.   
  
“Hey, remember in second year, when I took you out for your birthday?” asks Jim. “To that Chinese restaurant that didn’t actually have a name, it was just down some stairs under that Laundromat?”  
  
“Mmm,” mumbles McCoy. “Barely. So nervous that I drank too much and got sick. Threw up on your shoes and you took me home and tucked me in.”  
  
“Shh,” murmurs Jim. “I’m talking, aren’t I? You asked me the next day if you’d done anything embarrassing and I said no.”  
  
McCoy isn’t sure he likes where this is going. Dying humiliated is not preferable.   
  
“But you kissed me,” continues Jim. “Before you threw up, when we were leaving, you kissed me and then you puked and I said you hadn’t done anything embarrassing because—it wasn’t, Bones. It wasn’t embarrassing at all. But I could tell you had some mortified memory of doing  _something_  you wished you hadn’t done so I didn’t say anything. I thought it’s what you wanted.”  
  
“Oh god,” groans McCoy, putting his hands over his face. “Have some goddamn pity, Jim, I’m going to die trapped inside the walls of a starship like a mouse, why are you doing this to me?”  
  
“Hush,” says Jim comfortingly. “You were nervous because it felt kind of like a date, didn’t it? I wish I’d known. I would have asked you out on a birthday date instead.”  
  
“Maybe things could’ve been different,” says McCoy. The regret wells up thick and hot in his throat like smothered tears.   
  
“Things  _will_  be different,” says Jim. “Hold on.”  
  
The communicator goes dead. McCoy’s gut clenches. “Jim?” he whispers.   
  
Then he dematerializes.   
  
Molecular deconstruction has never been such a relief.  
  


***

  
  
_“I’ve got you,” murmurs Jim, kneeling down next to him. He bends to kiss McCoy’s forehead. “Medical team’s on its way, Bones. It’s okay.”_  
  
“The ship?” demands McCoy. “Crew?”   
  
“Under control. Don’t worry. Spock’s on his way and everyone’s been safe down here on the surface the whole time.” His blue eyes rove fretfully over McCoy’s body, settling on his belly, where Jim’s gold uniform top is wrapped tightly around McCoy’s midsection. “You bled through my shirt.” Then he kisses McCoy again, this time square on the mouth.  
  
“I did what you told me,” says McCoy softly, warmth curling through him. “I stayed alive.”   
  
“Yeah,” murmurs Jim fondly, running his fingers through McCoy’s hair as the medical personnel appear. “You did.”  
  
“Jim,” says McCoy, reaching for him. “Don’t leave me.”  
  
Jim takes his hand. “I’m right here. I’m right here for you.”


End file.
